


Plowed

by syrupfactory



Series: Ineffably Ever After [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Far Future, Fluff and Humor, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Smut, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23710174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupfactory/pseuds/syrupfactory
Summary: What begins as a nice day in the 31st century takes a sudden turn when Crowley slips (literally) and gets inconveniently discorporated at a train station. Aziraphale's three-part response plan is something like fret/help/shag. In that order. Crowley certainly can't complain.Can be read as a stand-alone!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffably Ever After [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586422
Comments: 13
Kudos: 144





	Plowed

**Author's Note:**

> **Mild content warning for light train-related violence and descriptions of a temporarily dead body.**
> 
> (Formerly titled "An Ideal Day (to Be Hit By a Train)" which I decided was too much of a mouthful.)

_Let’s take the train_ , Crowley had said. _Such a nice day for it._

Aziraphale had agreed; he knew how Crowley enjoyed riding the high-speed rail into London from time to time. “Fast” meant something completely different in the thirty-first century, of course, and he also enjoyed the novelty of it, if he was being totally honest. And it _was_ a nice day. No reason _not_ to take the train into the city before they attended the symphony, surely. 

Now, his husband is floating before him without a body. 

“Really?” is all Aziraphale can think to say. 

“It came out of nowhere!” Crowley pleads, transparent form undulating.

It’s fortunate that they were the only two individuals on the platform when the train came barreling in. It’s fortunate _because_ no one else had to witness Crowley slipping off the bloody platform just before it made contact. 

He was instantly discorporated by the impact, naturally. No one could survive that. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Get me back in my body, hopefully.”

“Yes, obviously. And then after that I’ll apparently need a leash and harness.”

“Kinky.”

“No, no, the sort meant for unruly children.”

“Still kinky.”

Aziraphale scoffs. This is better, of course, than it would have been in centuries past. Back in the old days, a discorporation would have sent Crowley straight into Hell, and it turned Aziraphale’s stomach just to think of it. Thankfully, that’s no longer the case. Around the time they were married, they discovered that the combined power of their love could function like a shield, so they poured it around the Earth itself, sealing out all other angels and demons for good. [1]

And that’s the only reason they aren’t royally fucked right now. 

“Is something wrong?” comes a voice behind him. “Where’s Crowley?”

The voice belongs to Thomas Malcolm, an Anglican priest they met a couple decades ago who has become a dear friend—he lives in the Downs, as well, now, inspired to move there with his own husband a couple years ago. His hair is graying these days, and the sight always strikes Aziraphale as a poignant visual reminder of just how brief human lives are. Thomas is well aware of their true origins, thankfully, so there’s no need to tiptoe around the facts here. 

Aziraphale sighs. “Thomas, I’m afraid we have a small hiccup in the itinerary.”

“Oh?”

“Here we go,” Crowley mutters. 

“Everything will be fine momentarily,” Aziraphale goes on, “but my _husband_ has managed to … get hit by a train and separate from his physical body.”

Thomas stares at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Aziraphale sighs again. Having a human witness is not ideal.

“I did also manage a last-second miracle to keep the body in one piece,” Crowley says. 

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale says, facing his ghostly form again, “how very THOUGHTFUL of you. So forward-thinking!”

“I’m _saying_ it won’t be overly gruesome for him, at least!”

“Indeed, at the _very_ least.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas interjects, “where exactly is Crowley?”

“He’s here beside me,” Azriaphale explains, resuming a polite tone. “But his body is down there on the tracks, I’m afraid. I do apologize for what you’re going to see in a moment. In fact, if you’d like to step away until we get this sorted out, please don’t hesitate.”

Thomas still looks confused, understandably. 

The train gone, Aziraphale takes a few steps forward and, sure enough, finds his husband’s fully intact yet awkwardly contorted body lying on the tracks, one foot bare and the sandal lying a few paces away. He’s wearing a long tunic today under a lovely sheer robe—pale green with a gold trim. It was an elegant ensemble until it became covered with dirt. 

“What a mess,” Aziraphale remarks. 

“Coulda been worse!”

Aziraphale pops down to the tracks and stoops to gather Crowley’s body into his arms. Lifting a lifeless corporation is challenging—his head flops awkwardly to the side and his limbs are limp and unhelpful. But he manages to get him into a bridal carry after a few tries. 

“Don’t forget my shoe,” Crowley says. 

“I see it!” Aziraphale snaps, miracling it back onto Crowley’s foot rather than risking dropping the body. 

He looks up at the platform and realizes Thomas is still watching. It’s fortunate that _his_ husband is already in London and meeting them at the performance hall, Aziraphale belatedly reflects. At least there’s only one person here to permanently traumatize. 

After popping back up to the platform, Aziraphale starts to set Crowley down again. 

“Can I help at all?” Thomas asks. 

Aziraphale eyes the grimy concrete, still damp from morning rainfall. 

“Actually,” he replies. “Would you mind terribly sitting here and having his head on your lap?”

“What? No!” Crowley protests. 

Aziraphale ignores him. 

“Not at all,” Thomas answers, quickly in place. Aziraphale eases Crowley’s lifeless head onto the priest’s thigh; Crowley’s tangled curls are gritty with soil and his jaw is slack.

“Why would you— Now _that’s_ just mortifying.”

Aziraphale swivels around. “Well! If you could have watched your step, you wouldn't have to be _mortified_ right now, hmm? Interesting how consequences work out.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” Aziraphale says, refacing him. “Sorry for the dirt. He’ll have to clean us up when he’s back inside. Since it’s his mess.”

“I GET THE POINT. JUST GET ON WITH IT.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says to no one in particular. 

He holds his hands above the body, passing over each area with care and healing any injuries he finds. No broken bones, no bruises, no twisted innards. He doubles back a few times, wanting to be completely sure Crowley won’t be screaming with pain when he’s restored.

“All healed,” Aziraphale confirms. “I’ll start the resuscitation. Ready?”

“Yes,” Crowley responds, much more calmly. “Ready.”

Holding his hand above Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale restarts his pulse to get the blood flowing and then pulls air into the lungs, so that the breathing rhythm starts. The way his chest rises and falls, with breath now passing out of his open mouth, he could almost be asleep. 

“That’s better. There you go. All set, Crowl—”

Just then, Crowley’s eyes open and he gasps as he tries to sit up. 

“Easy,” Aziraphale says, keeping him steady. “Easy, darling. Not too fast.”

Crowley whines, closing his eyes to the light and rubbing his hands over his face. It’s one thing to be discorporated and then be issued a brand new body the formal way. It’s another thing entirely to forcibly enter a comatose body that was previously in use. Aziraphale isn’t actually sure how uncomfortable it must be, because he’s never done it quite that way himself. 

“Are you alright? Are you in any pain?”

Sitting up with his eyes screwed shut, Crowley shakes his head. “Just my ears. My eyes. My … head.”

There are no injuries there; Aziraphale is certain of that. So there’s nothing more he can do. 

“A bit like a hangover?” Thomas remarks. 

“Perhaps not unlike,” Aziraphale allows. 

The station signals the sound of another train approaching, and Crowley scrambles to stand.

“Crowley, wait—” Aziraphale starts, helping him up since he’s so determined. 

“We need to get on the next one,” he says. 

“Listen,” Aziraphale says softly as his husband leans on him. “Never mind going into the city today. Let me take you home, hmm? You can rest. I’ll wrap you in a blanket.”

Crowley groans. “No, we’re going. I already fucked up enough without making you miss the symphony.”

He opens his eyes then, still squinting, and looks down at Aziraphale’s clothes. 

“Oh, right,” he says, flicking his hand and vanishing the dirt from all three of them. 

The train is arriving, then, but Aziraphale isn’t convinced sticking to the plan is the best idea. 

“Just … go back to being cross with me,” Crowley adds. 

Aziraphale gives him a look and leans in to be heard over the train. “I’m not cross. You scared me.”

Crowley meets his gaze, looking sheepish. “I know.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to his cheek. 

The doors of the train open, and the three of them make their way over, Aziraphale and Thomas both helping Crowley up the stairs … slowly. His headache is apparently enough to make him a bit unstable, or maybe it’s just the feeling of reorienting himself in his body. In any case, Aziraphale is relieved when they’re finally sitting down. 

Seated across from them, Thomas has been uncharacteristially silent. 

“How are you doing with all this?” Aziraphale asks. “Are you alright?”

“Me?” Thomas asks. “Oh … yes, I think so. That was incredible to witness, admittedly; I expect to be processing it for some time.”

Aziraphale considers that for a moment. 

“I’d normally never even suggest this, but if you would like, I _could_ remove that memory from your mind. If that would be better for you.”

“You can do that? Erase memories?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale answers, detecting a hint of alarm. “But I would never do so without your consent, of course.”

“Yes, of course. I’m only surprised I never wondered about that before, I suppose. But no, I don’t think that’s necessary. It was bewildering in the moment, yes, but I can’t say I regret being present. Though I would have preferred it hadn’t happened at all, of course.”

Aziraphale hums. “Yes, we’re in agreement there.”

He turns to look at Crowley and finds him leaning against the window, brow still furrowed. Aziraphale can’t bear to see him so miserable, no matter what the cause. 

“Crowley,” he says softly, nudging his shoulder. 

Crowley looks over, and Aziraphale pats the small pillow he’s just miracled into his lap. The hint of a smile creeps over Crowley’s features, and he leans toward him. 

“I’m alright,” he says, punctuating the statement by pecking Aziraphale’s cheek before he lies down, head on the pillow and knees tucked into the seat. 

Aziraphale is happy to have him there, stroking his arm and untangling his hair as they ride in silence. These are the last bodies they’ll ever have, and he’s rather fond of them. He knows Crowley knows that, knows how dangerous it is to slip up now that a new issue isn’t possible. Everything is alright this time, but they can’t afford to behave as if paperwork is the worst that could happen anymore. 

Crowley shifts and covers Aziraphale’s hand with his own, and Aziraphale takes it into a firm grasp, holding it there the rest of the way. 

///

“We’re here, Crowley,” comes Aziraphale’s voice after the train has stopped moving. “Are you awake, darling?”

Crowley nods and moves to sit up. He’d like to keep napping, to be honest, but attending the symphony usually means dozing off on Aziraphale’s shoulder, anyhow. 

Aziraphale helps him stand. “How’s your head?”

“Not so bad, now,” he answers, inwardly relieved that they’ll be sitting in a dark venue shortly. The ringing in his ears has subsided and his temples aren’t pounding quite as much, but everything is still far too bright. 

Thomas’s husband, Krister, joins them before they go inside, and Crowley hears Aziraphale explaining that Crowley is “a bit tired, but perfectly well.” There’s one way of putting it. 

After a dizzying maze of carpeted hallways and staircases, they’ve made it to their private box. The four of them have shared it on multiple occasions, now. Sitting down is such a comfort in his current state, Crowley wonders if he’ll ever stand again. 

“Here,” comes his husband’s voice, and he opens his eyes to find Aziraphale offering him a cup of water, which he takes and drinks gratefully. 

“Thanks,” he says, handing back the empty cup. 

“Thomas got that for you.”

“Thanks,” he repeats a bit more loudly, not bothering to look around. 

“You’re most welcome,” comes the reply somewhere very close by.

“Would you like to lie down, darling?” 

“Hmm?” he asks, opening his eyes to see what Aziraphale even means. 

He discovers that he’s miracled their pair of seats into one long sofa; Thomas and Krister are seated in the next row down, facing the railing, hands joined and sitting up like two respectable adults. 

Aziraphale pats his lap, where yet another pillow has appeared, and smiles. He could have given Crowley the cold shoulder for the whole performance, and he would have deserved it for being such an idiot earlier. 

“You are far too good to me,” Crowley says. 

“Well,” Aziraphale answers with a smile and a shrug, in a way that’s not a denial. 

Crowley sighs, unable to resist the invitation, and lies down once more. With Aziraphale running kind hands over his neck and shoulders, Crowley is fully relaxed by the time the orchestra begins to play and lulled to sleep after a few minutes of the first piece. 

Sometime later, he awakens to the soft gabble of a crowd and finds the lights a little brighter. Intermission. Crowley shifts to look up at Aziraphale and sees him smiling down at him, radiating love and affection. 

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, running a hand over Crowley’s hair. “How are you, my dear?”

It’s possible he’s enjoying his role as caretaker a little _too_ much. 

“Better,” Crowley says, nodding. 

He sits up, then, and finds that they’re alone in the box for now and moves to sit across his husband’s lap, pulling him into an embrace, which Aziraphale happily returns. 

“Thank you,” Crowley says, pulling back to face him. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, my love,” Aziraphale says. “Please don’t let that happen again.”

“Never. I promise.”

Aziraphale kisses him properly for the first time since the incident, and it’s far more passionate than his typical symphony kiss would be. Crowley responds in kind, feeling how Aziraphale’s flow of love is tinted with yearning. It evokes the same feeling within him, and they can’t seem to let go of each other for a while. Long enough that some part of Crowley’s mind wonders if they’re making a scene, even though he definitely doesn’t care. 

As they take a breath, Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s, newly light-headed but now in a good way. 

“That does it,” Aziraphale says under his breath. “I’m taking you home now.”

“What about the second half?”

“Oh, fuck the symphony. I’ve heard this a thousand times.”

Crowley laughs, both at the language and how randy his husband clearly is. They’re still alone, so they resume their snogging, Aziraphale’s arms now encircling Crowley’s waist. 

“You could have me here,” he whispers. 

Aziraphale gives him a look.

“I mean it. We’ll make it fast.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolds. “They’ll be back any minute!”

Crowley shrugs. “Oh right, like Thomas wouldn’t consider that his lucky day.”

Aziraphale gives him another look, then, eyes wide, and glances around to be sure no one was there to hear. 

“That’s too far and you know it,” he says, holding in laughter. 

Crowley does, indeed, know it. There’s no way Aziraphale would fuck him in their symphony box during a performace under any circumstances. But Crowley is also fairly certain Aziraphale will regret missing the second half, so a little crude humor could be just the thing to get him back to reality. 

“Besides,” Aziraphale goes on, running his hands over Crowley’s hips. “I’d rather not rush.”

With that, he’s kissing him again, no less ardently than before. Perhaps Crowley overestimated his interest in the symphony. Or underestimated how keen he is for a shag. Or both.

When Thomas and Krister return, Aziraphale is standing at once, nearly pushing Crowley off of his lap. 

“Would the two of you mind terribly if we head out early this time? I’m going to take him home.”

“Not at all,” Thomas says. “I do hope you feel better.”

“Lovely to see you both,” Krister adds.

Crowley nods his thanks and Aziraphale makes his goodbyes, and then they take their leave, finding a secluded spot in the hallway where they can disappear. 

///

They pop back home, to their cozy cottage on the South Downs coast, and find the den ambient with the final whisper of sunset. Aziraphale takes Crowley in his arms at once and pulls him to his lips again, kissing him like he _missed_ him. 

Crowley’s immediate reaction is to joke, but that wouldn’t be right when Aziraphale is flooding him with this much love and protectiveness and relief. He can feel how much his husband needs him, needs this reminder that he’s safe and everything is alright. Crowley doesn’t need to speak; his own love responds to Aziraphale’s, both echoing and answering, as they hold each other.

They’re swiftly in their bed, clothes shed, Aziraphale trailing kisses across Crowley’s chest. It’s been a long time since Crowley was separated from his body, and the reality of it feels far stranger in retrospect. The loss of all physical sensation. He’d almost forgotten what that was like. This isn’t just a body, it’s _his_ body. A quintessential part of both his identity and his experience of— 

“Ah!”

His eyes flash open to feel a tongue flick across his nipple. 

“You _are_ more sensitive, hmm?” Aziraphale asks breathily.

Crowley nods. “A bit. Not unpleasant, though.”

“Good,” his husband purrs, repeating the action a little more gently, “good.”

As Aziraphale continues touching him, his love is flowing at full force, totally unrestrained, which can be overwhelming—in a euphoric way, but in a way that almost makes physical pleasure an afterthought. It’s so easy for Crowley to fall into this feeling, to let it envelop him as his own love responds to it, that he might lose track of what his body is feeling until the orgasm crashes through him like a sudden lightning strike on a rainless night. 

But Crowley doesn’t _want_ to fall in this time, doesn’t want to lose track of what’s happening, so he actively focuses on the sensations, which takes considerable mental effort. There’s a hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, slowly gripping and releasing, and his cock pulses and jumps each time. That’s nice. That’s _really_ nice.

Aziraphale whispers something to him, but Crowley can’t spare any attention to understand the words. Something fond, it must have been, so Crowley bites his lip and tips his head back in reply, finding—remembering—that he’s reclined against Aziraphale’s bare chest now. His hand is stroking Crowley’s cock with increasing eagerness, and Crowley reflexively bends his knees; he won’t last much longer like this.

“I rather thought,” he manages to pant, hearing his own words only after he’s spoken them, “you’d be inside me by now.”

He twists to kiss Aziraphale’s neck as emphasis for that request. Crowley can hear him asking a question, but he has no idea what it is, so he says something like _mmmyeah_ in reply and hopes for the best. 

“Crowley,” comes Aziraphale’s voice again. “Crowley, open your eyes.”

That takes some concentration, but he gets there. 

“Darling, I’m asking if you’re sure you’re not too sensitive,” he says. “I could try a finger first to be sure?”

“Am I—am I _sure,_ ” Crowley says, coming back to reality for the moment. “Fuck … Aziraphale … yes, please. Please, just fuck me.”

Aziraphale chuckles and presses a kiss to his forehead. “As you wish.”

They’re resituated some moments later, with Aziraphale lying beside him and Crowley’s legs draped over Aziraphale’s hips so that he can fuck Crowley from the side. As soon as he feels him sliding into place, Crowley is making sounds he never intended, like his body has decided to moan without his consent, and he idly wonders if his face looks as ridiculous as it did when his head was on Thomas’s lap earlier. 

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale is asking, as he’s started to gently rock his hips.

It’s so much more than alright.

“Mmm-hmm,” Crowley answers in a high whine. 

Aziraphale gradually picks up speed, his hand matching the rhythm, and each snap of his hips sends a wave of bliss through Crowley’s core. And even though Aziraphale is still pouring love and affection in an endless stream, Crowley isn’t even on the cusp of losing himself to it … because each time Aziraphale moves within him, it’s a bit like gravity goes sideways. Crowley might be fully anchored to his body now, but he feels like he’s floating in the cosmos, and all the stars are pulsing along with him. 

“Holy fuck,” he gasps. “What— how— _why_ does that feel so good?”

Maybe the re-corporation came with a few surprise bonuses, after all. 

Aziraphale hums. “Well, you’re still getting reoriented. And … we _are_ overdue for this angle.”

“Ah,” Crowley says, nodding and drawing up his knees, “that’s true.”

Aziraphale comes moments later, but maintains his erection and his rhythm all the while, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s temple just after riding out his peak. Crowley is not far off, and his eyes are leaking now, and his mouth is sputtering all sorts of nonsense words as the pressure rises within him, like the burning nucleus at the center of the glowing star that is Aziraphale’s bright love. 

When Crowley comes, it’s a transcendent crash of pleasure that echoes through his body—he feels it twice over, and then three times, and it seems to reach every cell and nerve. Even his toes and ears are orgasmic, somehow. 

After a while, Crowley opens his eyes again and finds his husband smiling at him, stroking his hair.

“That was something,” Aziraphale remarks, perhaps a bit pleased with himself. Deservedly. 

Crowley’s hands still work, he finds, and he uses them to grab his husband by the shoulders, less for gravitas and more just to give himself the proper leverage to kiss him. 

“I love you,” is all he can think to say after. “I _love_ you.”

“And I love you, my darling.”

///

  
  


The following day, Father Thomas Malcolm decides to pay a visit to the London Archive, where Aziraphale and Crowley are head archivists. He always enjoys walking in, appreciating the mixture of old-fashioned architecture and modern accents—such as the main lounge area with its massive glowing tree and many cozy spaces to sit and read or work. 

He heads upstairs to the cafe balcony that overlooks that space and spots a familiar head of fiery auburn hair—arranged now into a side-braid with little flowers added as accents.[2] That’ll be the work of a doting angel, no doubt. 

Thomas sits down across from Crowley, who looks a thousand kilometers away, chin in his hand and gaze unfocused. He’s clearly happy, though—practically glowing with it. 

“You seem well,” Thomas remarks.

Crowley seems to belatedly take notice of him. “Hmm?”

Thomas can’t help but smile. He’s seen Crowley like this a few times before, over their many years of friendship, and it took him a few instances to understand that he wasn’t intoxicated, just blissed out after some quality time with his husband. It must truly be something, Thomas imagines, to be loved by an angel and to be able to return that love in full. These days, watching them together inspires him to be a better partner—compassionate, forgiving, patient—in his own relationship.

Just then, Azirahapale appears carrying two cups of tea on saucers.

“Oh, hello Thomas!” he says, chipper as ever.

Setting the cups on the table, Aziraphale dips to kiss his husband’s temple, and for the briefest moment, Crowley leans in, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Would you like some tea as well?” Aziraphale asks, always a courteous host.

“Oh, my gratitude, but not this time,” Thomas says. “Just passing through. I’m glad he seems to be feeling well.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale replies happily, rubbing Crowley’s shoulder as he slowly sips his tea. “Much better indeed. Kind of you to check in.”

“His hair looks lovely.”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale replies, cheeks a little rosy. “I may have gotten a bit carried away. But he didn’t seem to mind.”

Thomas chuckles. “No, I don’t imagine so.”

“How are you?” Aziraphale asks, tone shifting with slight concern. “Are you doing alright?”

It takes Thomas a moment to realize that Aziraphale is asking about how he’s processing what he saw the day before. Watching Crowley _rise from the dead_ —not long after Easter, no less—was certainly an unforgettable experience, but oddly enough, the resuscitation wasn’t actually the bit that stuck in his mind. Instead, it was the way Aziraphale had changed so drastically, in one moment turning and shouting angrily at the air to be more careful, and in the next, speaking so gently to his husband, all frustration evaporated. It was an incredible reminder, Thomas felt, of how readily everyone ought to forgive those we love, and how to handle missteps with grace. He had already begun working on a sermon inspired by those very reflections. 

“Oh, I’m perfectly well,” he says in reply. “Truly. I still don’t regret having been there.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, visibly relaxing. “That’s good to hear.”

“Good thing it worked,” Crowley mumbles. 

Azirphale sighs at that and pats his knee beneath the table. 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, newly alarmed. “Was there a … chance it might not work?”

“We’ve never done it _quite_ like that before,” Aziraphale admits, still regarding his husband. “In the old days, there would just be a new issue—new body, that is. But now, these are all we’ve got.”

He meets Thomas’s gaze again. “I had no reason to think it _wouldn’t_ work, though.” 

With sudden clarity, Thomas fully understands how terrified Aziraphale must have been as he scrambled to rescue Crowley’s body at the train station. But before Thomas can think of any way to respond, Crowley has slithered—for lack of better term—into his husband’s lap and laid his head on his shoulder. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” Aziraphale whispers, wrapping his arms around him. 

They’re not normally so affectionate in public, but Aziraphale is clearly making an exception. Thomas takes that as his cue to give them some space, standing and making his goodbyes. 

“Have a beautiful afternoon,” Aziraphale says with a warm smile.

As Thomas leaves and finds that the rain has given way to a perfect spring breeze, he wonders if perhaps it was a little blessing of sorts. 

///

**Author's Note:**

> 1To read _that_ story, check out the third fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442455)![return to text]
> 
> 2Hairdo inspired by [this lovely fanart](https://lonicera-caprifolium.tumblr.com/post/190728838888). [return to text]


End file.
